


Shower Singer

by dawnstruck



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Brownies, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern AU, Shower Sex, eggs were harmed in the making of this fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: Damen is a shower singer. His neighbor is unimpressed.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MTrash (Makaria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makaria/gifts).



> This was inspired by a tumblr post along the lines of 'Our bathrooms are next to each other and sometimes I can hear you sing/masturbate/cry in the shower", so I thought why not combine all three and make it both fun and heart-wrenching because that's kind of my thing.  
> And of course I did not manage to get this done in time for Maka's birthday, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, darling. :D

Damen moving into the quaint little apartment at the edge of the city is meant to be a clean cut.

New place, new job, new single life. And he tells himself he is going to make the most of it.

It's a two room apartment, bedroom and living-room with kitchenette. There is a tiny balcony that barely fits the ancient A/C on it, but the windows are big enough to flood the main area with light, just like he likes it.

The only downside is that the bathroom does not have a window. There are remnants of mold clinging to the ceiling in the corners, even though the landlord had promised he had recently cleaned it and that there was no health risk whatsoever, but could Damen please make sure to regularly air out the room anyway?

There is, however, another problem that soon presents itself.

 

It's seven on a Monday morning, and he is keyed up because in just two hours he will be starting his first day on his first real job. He feels liberated, like a new person, and after his workout he steps into the bathroom, chucking off his shorts as he does so.

The ventilation system that always turns on with the lights is blaring overhead and he wonders how long it will take him to get used to the annoying sound. For now, though, he just searches through his phone to pick out a fitting soundtrack for the day.

He's bobbing his head as the[ first beats ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4JipHEz53sU)come on, waiting for the water to heat up, but by the time he steps under the stream he is rapping along.

“When he make it drip, drip kiss him on the lip, lip, that's the kind of dude I was lookin' for. And yes you'll get slapped if you're lookin' hoe!”

He grins to himself as he reaches for the shampoo bottle, squirting a small amount into his palm and then massaging it onto his scalp.

“I said, excuse me you're a hell of a guy, I mean my, my, my, my you're like pelican fly!”

He tilts his head back, trying to get his hair wetter and work up a foam, “I mean, you're so shy and I'm loving your tie. You're like slicker than the guy with the thing on his eye, OH!”

Damen likes to think he's a good singer. Or at least an enthusiastic one, had Nikandros had often lamented. Nikandros was quite passionate about music as well, but mostly when he was drunk and Damen dragged him into impromptu karaoke sessions.

Damen also happened to be quite the dancer.

“Boy you got my heartbeat runnin' away, beating like a drum and it's coming your way,” he sings, undulating his hips along with the rhythm, “Can't you hear that boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom!”

It's gonna be a good day. He just knows.

 

Half an hour later finds him properly dressed and groomed, stepping out of his apartment and locking the door behind him. To his right, another door clicks shut and he automatically lifts his head.

“Oh hi,” Damen says in surprise, smiling at the guy because he hadn't really met any of his neighbors yet, “Good morning.”

The guy – blond and slender and with a sort of sour expression on his face – just gives him a look.

“Nicki Minaj,” he says flatly, “Really?”

It takes Damen a moment to understand what he means. Then he laughs.

“Hey, don't knock it till you've tried,” he replies with a wink.

“I think I've sampled enough to last me the rest of the week,” the guy says. He might be a little younger than Damen but it is difficult to tell with his well-tailored suit and the hard edge in his blue eyes. Damen, however, is not easily deterred.

“Only the week?” he teases, “Would you like me to sing _Anaconda_ next Monday?”

“Please don't,” the guys says, as though it were a serious threat, but before Damen can try for another joke he is already turning away and sweeping down the stairs.

Damen remains behind, a little dumbfounded. As far as first impressions went this probably hadn't gone too well, from either side.

Stuck-up prick, Damen thinks to himself.

He makes sure to throw a quick glance at the small sign by the guy's door.

Laurent deVere. Damen gives a mental huff. Even his name sounds stuck-up.

Well, he tells himself, at least he has a nice ass.

With a slow grin, Damen decides that he is going to like it here.

 

Damen does like it. He likes his apartment and the neighborhood with its little bakery and the park where he can go for a run and watch dogs. He likes squeezing himself on the balcony to enjoy a beer in the evening. He enjoys his job, even if is still somewhat overwhelming and definitely stressful.

But, he thinks, standing in the shower and letting the hot water pour over him, there are many ways to counteract that.

He's got face tilted into the stream, making it a little difficult to breathe. His hand is loosely closed around his cock, lazily moving along its length. He is not in a hurry to get off, just wants to indulge in the winding pleasure that courses through his body and does wonders to wake him up bit by bit.

He leans back till his shoulder blades touch the wall, the cold tiles a sharp contrast against his heated skin, and he thrusts up into his fist with a couple of steady undulations of his hips.

He hums a little, the sound spitefully carrying across the noise of the ventilation. And it feels good, but physical stimulation had never been quite enough to fully satisfy Damen. So he thinks of long slender legs wrapping around him, thinks of arms circling around his neck. He thinks of digging his fingers into damp, blond hair as he fucks into that tight heat, thinks of a moan in his ear, half surprise and half surrender-

Damen runs his thumb over the head of his cock, gaining speed with each stroke, until his wrist is protesting and he feels warmth twining in his gut like a pit full of snakes.

He presses the back of his head against the tiles, dripping curls falling into his face, rivulets running across his cheeks in lieu of sweat, licks his lips, gives a long, drawn-out moan.

The scene in mind changes, him roughly fucking into them from behind, one hand braced against their hipbone, the other against the back of their neck, his fingertips just brushing the fair hair, another delighted moan in his fantasy and from his own mouth, he tightens his fist, the palm wet and slippery but calloused, too, rubbing across his sensitive skin in just the right manner – and then he is coming, jaw falling open, eyes clenched shut and letting the pleasure pour from him in its manifold ways.

When the sunburst has faded a little and the afterglow still lingers, he gives a little laugh and straightens himself, stretching his shoulders. Masturbating in the morning always made him a little tired but, in the long run, it did wonders to relax him. He'd need it with a long day of work ahead of him.

His enjoyment of his morning activities, however, is dampened as soon as he leaves his apartment a little while later. Because the guy named Laurent is there, in the process of locking up his door. Damen opens his mouth to greet him because he has _manners_ , but he is immediately stopped by a death glare.

“... Problem?” Damen asks, though even that feels like it might get him beheaded.

“I preferred the singing,” Laurent says tersely.

Damen frowns. “What?”

“I believe the air vents in our bathrooms are connected,” Laurent points out, tilting his chin up in an almost challenging manner, “The sound carries.”

Damen stares at him because, as Laurent had already mentioned, he certainly hadn't been singing today. Then it clicks.

“Oh,” he says, vaguely embarrassed when he realizes that he must have been much louder than he had thought. But in the end he cannot help but grin. “My bad, man.”

“You vile brute,” Laurent mutters under his breath as though masturbating in the shower was a completely base concept. His grip around his fancy leather briefcase tightens and his shoulders square as though he were trying to shake off whatever Damen's presence had offended him with.

Then he makes for the stairs.

“Orgasms are good for you,” Damen calls after him, “You should try it sometime.”

Laurent stops, glances back over his shoulder. When he flicks his ice gaze along Damen's body, it's with obvious distaste. Damen shivers slightly.

“What, with you, I assume?” Laurent asks, managing to sound both scathing and dismissive at the same time.

Damen's mouth is dry.

“Don't knock it till you've tried it,” he echoes his words from their first meeting, because he has nothing else. Laurent just scoffs, whips his head around like a proud horse, and then he prances down the stairs.

 

Here is the thing. Damen likes blondes. Damen likes blondes a lot. Damen likes blondes so much that he doesn't even mind much if those blonds are dudes. And he can easily admit that, whatever hair color, Laurent deVere is fine as hell.

The other thing, however, is that Damen's type is unfortunately not limited to strictly looks.

There's a certain attitude that draws him in, a certain air of arrogance. Because Damen does not think of himself as shallow, but he likes it when pretty people play hard to get. He likes the challenge and the subsequent conquest. He likes when the prey, even when caught, is never fully tamed.

Which is exactly how things had gone down with Jokaste and, as Damen had promised an adamant Nikandros, there would be no repetition of that anytime soon.

It's easy enough. Sometimes he and Laurent meet each other in the hallway or on the threshold when one of them is leaving and the other coming home. Sometimes they snark at each other, sometimes Damen flips Laurent the finger at his turned back. Sometimes Damen lets his eyes linger because, no matter from what angle, Laurent's ass really is superb.

But that's all there is. They don't make small-talk, they don't even politely nod at each other. Hell, they never even introduced themselves to each other.

It's all fine, though. Damen occasionally talks to the old lady downstairs and the couple from down the hallway had already invited him to dinner twice. It's overall a little more anonymous than what he is used from his old apartment building that had mostly been inhabited by college kids. But it's not bad per se. He just needs some time to find his footing, in this house, in the neighborhood. He does not need Laurent deVere.

Then it turns out that Laurent deVere might just need him. Or anyone at all, really.

 

Damen comes home late one evening, having spent several hours drinking beer with Nikandros and watching the game on their old shitty couch. It's weird to no longer be roommates, but the things that matter are essentially unchanged. They are still closer than he and Kastor will ever be and Nikandros still plays the worry wart in lieu of Damen's real mother.

This time, Nik had actually asked whether Damen was 'eating right', as though that brief stint in vegetarianism was to be considered some sort of eating disorder. And then, when Damen's answer hadn't been satisfying, he had promptly grabbed his phone and had some spareribs delivered to their door.

Now, all Damen wants it to properly wash off the grease from his fingers and the smell of booze from his body and then he'll fall into bed. It's a bit embarrassing, maybe, but he finds that having a social life on top of a full work schedule is more exhausting than expected. He gets through his days just fine but in the evenings all he wants to do is sleep.

Shower first, though. He doesn't even bother with the light, not wanting the ventilation to noisily kick up again. Instead, he just leaves the door open and lets the warm glow from the hallway spill in.

That's when he hears it. It takes him a moment to pinpoint the sound and then a moment longer to really identify it but, when he does, it is unmistakable.

Crying. Someone is crying, with huge helpless heaving sobs, and the sound of it echoes right through the air vents and into Damen's bleak bathroom.

Oh, Damen thinks, because he is pretty sure that that is a man's voice and he is also sure that that man is Laurent.

His first instinct is to just feel awkward. Laurent, as far as he is concerned, is an ice prince with an impenetrable facade. Damen should not be bearing witness to his emotional breakdown, especially when Laurent was not even aware that someone was listening in.

But then there is also the fact that... Laurent is having an emotional breakdown. Which probably means he is not as much of an ice prince as he likes to pretend.

For a good minute, Damen debates with himself. The crying does not stop. If anything, it sounds like it might be getting worse, as though Laurent were on the verge of hyperventilating.

That, finally, is what seals the deal. Damen cannot, in good conscience, have his neighbor pass out and drown in the shower.

He stuffs his keys back into his jeans pocket, steps out onto the hallways and comes to stand in front of Laurent's door. He could ring the bell, of course, but he finds that knocking always has more urgency to it. So he knocks, loudly and repeatedly, making the wood reverberate underneath his fist.

It take a while but, when he proves relentless, the door finally opens up.

“ _What_?” Laurent hisses dangerously.

He is wearing a sort of silky kimono with cherry blossoms and cranes stitched onto the turquoise fabric and it clings to his wet skin. His hair, similarly, is plastered to his head, dripping all over him. His face is splotchy and could be blamed on the hot water, and maybe his eyes are reddened because he got shampoo in them. But his voice cracks, just a little. And that is all the answer proof Damen needs.

And yet it is in that moment that he realizes what a bad idea this was. Not as such, he still thinks the impulse to intervene was well founded. But he didn't plan anything beyond this moment, beyond Laurent opening the door. And now he's got nothing.

“Uh, do you think I could borrow some eggs?” he asks as though it were not eleven pm and their relationship did not exactly figure anywhere on the 'kind neighbors who let each other borrow cups of sugar' kind of scale.

Accordingly, Laurent stares at him, incredulous.

“I was going to make brownies,” Damen lies, putting on a chagrined smile, “But I noticed I ran out of eggs.”

“You dragged me out of the shower because of fucking brownies?” Laurent asks. In any other situation, the swear word on his lips might have seemed almost tantalizing. Like this, however, it is only more evidence for how on edge he really is.

“They are really good brownies,” Damen defends himself.

Laurent slams the door in his face.

It was to be expected, really. Damen wasn't exactly bad when it came to comforting people, but he also doesn't really know anything about Laurent. Holding a crying friend or a complete stranger is one thing. Laurent, on the other hand, is more of an antagonist. A trying two minutes in his otherwise easy days.

Damen thumps his fist against the door frame, quietly cursing himself. He is not sure what he had been expecting but he had hoped... that he might at least help a little. Take Laurent's mind off things. Anything to purge the song of desperation from his ears.

He's about to turn away and slink back to his apartment in woeful defeat, when the door suddenly opens again.

Laurent, just as damp and prissy and devastatingly beautiful as before, presses two eggs into Damen's beggar's hands.

“There,” Laurent snarls, “That's all the charity I'm capable off.”

This time, when the door closes in his face, Damen does not feel quite as bereft.

 

Damen puts the eggs into the fridge, contemplates them for a little while. Then he goes into the bathroom to take a shower. There are no sounds coming from the air vents, except for the steady hum of the ventilation itself. So in that regard, at least, the mission was a success.

It's still not right, though. For all he knows, Laurent might be crying in his bed now. Laurent might be slitting his wrists and slowly bleeding out on the cold tiles.

Damen dries off in a perfunctory manner, shrugs on a t-shirt and shivers slightly when it sticks to the damp spot between his shoulder blades. Then he wanders back into the kitchen.

It's not quite midnight. A perfectly reasonable time for baking, in his opinion, especially as this recipe doesn't really take long.

He preheats the oven, grabs a small bowl, and gets to work.

 

To his relief, when Damen goes to knock on his neighbor's door for the second time that night, Laurent opens up almost right away. He looks neither angry nor surprised, only exasperated.

“What now?” he drawls, though his gaze already drops to the plate in Damen's hand.

“Brownies?” Damen asks with a bright grin, “As a thank you for your trouble?”

“You are unbelievable,” Laurent mutters under his breath. His hair is still somewhat damp but he is wearing a deep blue pajama now and doesn't look nearly as vulnerable as before.

“Whatever,” he shrugs when Damen shows no sign of backing down. Then he takes a step back and out of the threshold. It's the only invitation Damen gets and the only one he needs.

“I'm Damen by the way,” he remembers to introduce himself.

“I know.”

“Read my door sign, did ya?” Damen grins, his tongue peeking out between his teeth, but Laurent seems unimpressed.

“Some of your mail was mixed in with mine.”

“My full name is Damianos, though,” Damen points out.

“Whatever,” Laurent says again and Damen uses the opportunity to glance around the little kingdom.

The layout of Laurent's apartment is much the same, only that it is mirrored and therefore looking a little off-kilter in Damen's eyes. The interior design is what can only be called minimalist with color coordinated furniture and tasteful framed photographs of black and white cityscapes on the walls.

It feels like Laurent himself in a way, a smooth facade that's easy on the eyes, and Damen is almost a little disappointed. Then he spots the huge overladen bookshelf at the opposite wall of the living-room, a comfy armchair right next to it and tilted toward the window, and suddenly this little place feels more like a home.

“So,” Laurent says, lackadaisically gesturing toward his high narrow kitchen table, “Have a seat, if you must.”

Laurent himself remains standing with his arms crossed, watching as Damen clambers onto the single metal bar stool. The thing is uncomfortable, made for breakfast consisting only of coffee and careless dinners in late hours. It also seems that Laurent generally does not expect company.

Damen has placed the plate on the table and it meaningfully pushing it toward Laurent who just eyes it suspiciously.

“They are not poisoned,” Damen promises.

“Would you like me to list all of the various ailments that can be caused by sugar alone?” Laurent asks, cocking an eyebrow, and Damen gives a little pout.

“Are you allergic to anything?” he asks.

“No,” Laurent replies and, because this is him, he has to add a counter question, “Why?”

“Because you just asked whether these are poisonous and this is a vegan recipe, so there's bananas and almond milk in there,” Damen explains,

“My friend Nik is allergic to most nuts and if it weren't for his Epipen I would have killed him so many times.”

“Vegan, huh?” Laurent says thoughtfully. He has leaned forward a little to grab a piece of brownie off the plate but instead of taking a bite he just eyes it critically, “You're a terrible liar, Damen, you know that?”

“Huh?” Damen blinks, so surprised that he is not even offended, “No, they are really vegan. I mean, my diet's not all vegan, but I like to experiment with it a little and some of the stuff is really good.”

Laurent's smile is more of a scythe.

“Then whatever did you need to borrow eggs for?” he wonders blithely.

Damen opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“I changed my mind halfway through?” he tries.

“Uh-huh,” Laurent says, unimpressed.

“Oh man,” Damen runs a hand through his still damp curls, “I couldn't help but hear you, alright? In the shower, I mean.”

Laurent's lips are pursed, though he probably must have expected as much.

“So what?” he scoffs, “You wanted to play hero a little? Pat yourself on the back, showing sympathy for the resident nut job?”

“You're not a nut job,” Damen frowns, “I'm pretty sure everyone has cried in the shower at some point in their lives.”

Yet Laurent just gives a disbelieving laugh, “And usually it implies that one wants to be left alone.”

“But you shouldn't _have_ to be alone,” Damen says. For some reason, it comes out sounding more earnest than intended. Softer, somehow.

For a moment, Laurent just stares at him. Then he abruptly turns away, facing the other wall. As though to keep himself from having to say anything in reply, he unceremoniously stuffs the brownie into his mouth, though he tries to make up for it by chewing more daintily than the huge bite really allows.

In the end, they do not talk, but Laurent eats most of the brownies and Damen counts that as its own kind of victory.

 

The next day, Damen wakes with a plan already in his head. He does not know whether he dreamed it up or whether he fell asleep thinking about it or perhaps both but he decides to roll with it anyway.

He whips up a quick breakfast and then, instead of eating in the kitchen like a normal person, carries his plate into the bathroom, sits on the rim of the bathtub and eats there. It takes a while, but finally he can faintly hear Laurent move around in his own bathroom, the flush of the toilet, the cabinet being opened and closed, and then the shower eventually comes on.

By this point, Damen is already naked and prepared, phone in hand and picking the perfect song for this occasion. Something happy he thinks. [Something fun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAG8iD-XS44).

He jumps under the shower himself and turns on the water, grinning to himself as he waits out the intro and for the lyrics to properly start. Then it is his time to shine.

“Everybody!” he belts out, “Wants somebody! To Love! Someone to Love! Someone to Kiss! Someone to miss!”

There is no doubt in his mind that Laurent can hear him. He's not a prodigy exactly but he's got a decent voice and little shame.

“And I need you you you! I need you you you! I need you you you! I need you you you!”

In the back of his mind he vaguely wonders whether Laurent might misinterpret this. It's not meant as a come-on, not at all. What Laurent needs, first and foremost, is a friend. And, for some strange reason that he does not yet fully understand, Damen hopes that he can be that. That is, as long as Laurent put in a little effort as well. Friendship was a two-way street, after all.

“Sometimes I feel! I feel a little sad inside! When my baby mistreats me! And I get a little mad inside!”

He sings his heart out and, because Laurent apparently takes really long showers, he sings along to[ Soul Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnaSRhMB_qo), too, and then his fingertips get pruney and he decides it's probably best to finally dry off.

He gets dressed in his favorite outfit, just so happens to put in a little more effort then usual when he does his hair, tugs at his fringe so the curls rakishly tumble down his forehead, and grins at his reflection in the mirror and- Who is he even kidding, he is totally trying to impress Laurent.

“Dammit, dammit,” he mutters to himself, but then he takes a deep breath and steps out into the hallway, hand still on the handle when he spots Laurent coming out as well.

For a moment, they just look at each other. The tentative companionship might have been just a fluke that Laurent regretted now. Damen gives him a hesitant smile.

Laurent's eyes, blue like glaciers in which too adventurous men plummet to their death, turns his head away and saunters down the stairs.

Damen, unused to rejection and cold shoulders, stays behind, feeling a little bit like a kicked puppy and wondering what he did wrong.

 

He tries not to think about it and work is fortunately busy enough to offer decent distraction. He jokes around with the intern Pallas, averts a minor organizational crisis, gets praised by his boss and, when a colleague's wife drops by with their toddler, Damen even gets to hold her and make her laugh when no one else can.

All in all, it's a great day and, when Damen goes home, he tells himself to not get too hung up on the stubborn enigma that lives next to him.

And then Laurent knocks on his door.

“You forgot your plate,” he says, thrusting the thing into Damen's hands as though its presence in his kitchen had personally offended him, “I wanted to return it.”

“Oh,” Damen says, numbly accepting it, “Thanks.”

He stands there a little awkwardly, not knowing what to say. It feels like the conversation should be over, but Laurent lingers.

“I also would like my eggs back, if you haven't used them yet,” he says in his most snooty voice and that at least makes sense again. Kinda.

“S-sure,” Damen says and turns away, “Just a second.”

Yet Laurent, he notes with a glance back over his shoulder, just follows him inside, all entitlement in lieu of an invitation.

“Your place is cleaner than I would have expected,” Laurent remarks because even his compliments have to be insult.

“This isn't my first apartment,” Damen nods. He can do this. Small talk is easy and he can feel his shoulders relax. “I used to room with my friend-”

“Nik,” Laurent recalls.

“Yeah, but he got a job in another part of town and commuting would have been a drag. So we decided to return to single life.”

It's a bit of a white lie, of course. A big part of it had been Jokaste and another the fact that things with Nik's boyfriend Jord had been getting more serious than any of them had expected. Then there had been the whole fallout with Kastor and the new job and, in the end, getting his own place had seemed for the best. A fresh start. A new pace.

“Hm,” Laurent hums as he idly looks around, “It's just a surprise that someone like you knows how to clean up after himself.”

“My mom died when I was little,” Damen explains and, as though to prove the point, begins to unload the dishwasher, “And my dad was busy a lot. It was only normal my brother and I helped around the house.”

“You have a brother?”

“An older half-brother,” Damen shrugs, “We don't really get along nowadays. You?”

“I had an older brother,” Laurent says and the hurt is his voice is so naked that it was either very recent or still very painful.

“I'm sorry,” Damen says quietly and then, because a he's big idiot, he asks, “Was that why you...?”

Laurent laughs, like broken glass.

“Part of it,” he replies flippantly, as though that didn't just imply he had many things to cry about.

The mood has shifted and the easy rapport they have carefully established curls up and withers again.

“My eggs,” Laurent reminds him pointedly.

“Oh, right,” Damen says, doing a bit of a pirouette over to the fridge. He opens the door, stares a the two eggs in the tray, before reaching out and gathering them in his hands. Their weight in his palms seems almost deliberate, as though they had a bigger purpose than they could fathom.

When he turns around, Laurent is standing in front of him, reaching out an expectant hand. Damen, in a moment of divine guidance, smashes one of the eggs down onto Laurent's head.

There is a wet squirt as the shell breaks and then thick yolk is melting into cornsilk hair and, for a stunning five seconds, Damianos Akielos has the pleasure of witnessing what 'completely flabbergasted' looks like on Laurent deVere's face.

“My bad,” Damen says, “My hand-to-eye coordination is so shit.”

Predictably, Laurent reacts by snatching the other egg from his hand and slamming it against Damen's forehead, digging his fingers into his hair and really rubbing it it. Damen, through the disgust and mild amusement, cannot help but notice how Laurent's hand is smooth and pleasantly cool against his own skin.

“You stupid fuck,” Laurent rails, baring his teeth like an angry cat, “How the fuck dare you-”

A glob of egg yolk drips down along his nose, gathering at the tip like snot, and the sight of it is so ridiculous, so out of this world that Damen cannot help but laugh. A beat later, Laurent joins in, helplessly, a palm pressed to his ribs and with sobs caught in the crevices. He has to lean against the counter as though his legs would no longer carry his weight, and Damen tips back against the fridge, his abs quickly sore from the laughing fit.

When they finally calm down, the tension has not quite fled from the room, cowering in the corner and threatening to rear its ugly head again. But Damen won't let it.

“Looks like you need a shower,” Damen notes with a meaningful look at Laurent's state.

“You are lucky this is an old shirt,” Laurent just huffs, “Or I would sue you for the dry-cleaning costs.”

“Better go wash out your mouth, too,” Damen says, “Wouldn't want you to catch salmonella.”

He's not sure how big the risk of that actually is, considering eggs nowadays were heat-treated or whatever, and he eats raw cookie dough all the time, but it does the trick. With another fleeting glare directed at him, Laurent turns on his heel and stalks out of Damen's apartment, making sure to slam the door.

Damen practically flies into his bathroom, immediately pulling his soiled shirt over his head and tossing it into the hamper. He's shimmying out of his jeans, simultaneously wrestling his phone out of the pocket and then fiddling through his music selection. Next door, he can already hear the shower coming on, just as Damen presses[ play](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDWKuo3gXMQ&t=0m40s).

“Everybody loves the things you do,” he sings, stepping into the bathtub and pulling the curtain closed behind him, “From the way you talk to the way you move.”

It's not quite his pitch, he admits when he twists the shower dial, quickly sidestepping the rain of cold water, but it's the thought that counts.

“Everybody here is watching you,” he sings, waiting for the water to warm up, “'Cause you feel like home.”

He tilts his face into the stream, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't get any egg in them, gets a mouthful of water instead, but it does not deter him.

“You look like a movie! You sound like a song! My God, this reminds me of when we were young!”

He drags out the last word, can hear himself tip somewhat off key, but it does not matter. It does not matter because, by the time the second chorus hits, another voice joins in.

“Let me photograph you in this light in case it is the last time,” he grins, Laurent's voice echoing out of the air vent overhead and titillating off the tiles, “That we might be exactly like we were before we realized, we were sad of getting old. It made us restless.”

A deep breath, and Damen's got his hands in his hair now, fingertips scrubbing at his scalp, and he thinks of how Laurent must be doing the same now, Laurent who was crying in his shower all alone, just a few days ago, Laurent now singing a heartfelt duet with him as though things had always been this way between them. As thought things always might be.

“It was just like a movie,” Damen sings and it's not quite the equivalent of throwing pebbles at Laurent's window to serenade him, but it is pretty damn close. “It was just like a song! When we were young!”

 

The morning brings the sunrise, promises and nervous excitement in the pit of Damen's stomach.

He gets ready early and then camps out in his tiny hallway, tapping his foot against the floorboards, until he he hears Laurent's door open. Only then does he finally leave his apartment as well.

“Morning,” he tells Laurent casually, making a show of properly locking up, mostly to keep himself from eagerly staring at Laurent.

Laurent, however, does not return the greeting.

“You have the weirdest taste in music I have witnessed,” he says simply.

“Hey, not a word against Adele,” Damen warns, raising a finger at him, though the effect is a little diminished by the key ring tittering on it.

Laurent turns his face away but not so quickly that Damen doesn't catch the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Next time,” Laurent says, “I pick the song.”

Damen grins.

“Fine by me,” he says and means it.

Because there will be a next time, another morning or evening, another song, another duet, another tether connecting them, another perfect moment and, if Laurent happens to be into Screamo or anything like that, Damen will gladly sacrifice both his vocal cords and ear drums to make him feel at home.

.

.

.

**Coda**

It had been a tumultuous year, to say the least. First Damen's father had gotten sick, then Kastor had decided to be even more of an asshole. Jokaste had decided to make a reappearance and so had Laurent's uncle, Nik and Jord had gotten engaged, Damen had gotten a promotion, Laurent had quit his job, there was a burst water piper in the apartment above, leaking into the walls downstairs and turning the mild mold from before into a plague.

At some point along the way, Laurent and Damen had started dating.

Though that probably wasn't the right word for whatever was between them. Their relationship had begun long before they had gone on an actual date. But there were brownies and mixed-up mail and a little too much wine and mud trodden through the hallway on rainy days and Damen's washing machine malfunctioning and him having to do laundry at Laurent's place and somehow somewhere there had been a first kiss and then another and another, and then Jord offhandedly referred to Laurent as Damen's boyfriend because that's how Nik had made it sound, and finally Damen had decided to fess up and face the music.

It hadn't always been easy, not with Laurent's past and his tendency to try and push people away as soon as they got too close. Not to mention that they were, in their natures, two very different people. Their respective friends still sometimes couldn't seem to believe Damen and Lauren actually made this relationship work. In fact, it had taken lots of long nights and gentle words to even make Laurent understand that there even was a relationship to begin with.

But finally, finally, they had found their footing. And, after a bit more nervous tiptoeing around the issue, they had moved in with each other.

It was a different building but close to where they had lived before. It was still small and cozy because Laurent preferred to splurge on books and fashion and Damen preferred to splurge on food and date nights, but they found that home was an easier thing when you had someone to share it with.

There was also the added benefit of having sex whenever they wanted to. Such as now when Damen has Laurent pressed up against the wall of the shower stall, one of his legs hitched up, warm water pouring over his rosy skin and drawn-out moans spilling from his lips.

“Sssh,” Damen shushes him through a laugh, even as he accentuates it with another angled thrust, “The neighbors will hear.”

Laurent's eyes spark.

“Let them,” he says and kisses him.

 


End file.
